


sometimes love (is speaking in a whisper)

by Jaioi



Category: VIXX
Genre: (i'll add more ((serious)) tags as the story continues), M/M, fanboy wonsik, music composition major taekwoon, taekwoon likes nightclubs dont tell anyone, wonsik the tattooist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-07-28 17:07:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7649317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaioi/pseuds/Jaioi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Music composition major Jung Taekwoon finds solace away from prying eyes in the tight, sweaty space of a nightclub. With the music thundering through his body, he meets Kim Wonsik—a man with an easy smile that, unbeknownst to Taekwoon, becomes his newest muse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [ OceannanotOceania](http://archiveofourown.org/users/OceannanotOceania/pseuds/OceannanotOceania) for your beta help!

There’s something about the feeling of heated bodies pressed against one another with bass heavy songs booming from the hanging speakers that creates a certain type of unabashed high. Perhaps it’s the copious amounts of alcohol flooding into bloodstreams, freeing all of one’s inhibitions—but maybe, it’s just the sense of freedom that comes with the territory of a nightclub. Taekwoon isn’t sure which to blame and in all honesty, he couldn’t care less.

He comes every Saturday—alone.

Taekwoon’s friends slip him the offer of joining them when Friday nights roll around, promising him a good time that’ll be with him ‘til his deathbed. He declines with a shake of his head and they don’t press it (though Hakyeon never fails to loudly sigh next to him). Hongbin shrugs like clockwork, saying how he gets that it’s just not his thing and Taekwoon thanks him. He’s sure he should feel guilty about not telling them that it actually _is_ his thing, but a thing he does solo.

The clubbing lifestyle is an image that simply does not fit that of Jung Taekwoon (he’s the intimidating music composition major in his final year and nothing more). But come Saturdays, he’s just another body swept away. No need for names, no need for living up to the perception others instilled in him. Frankly, Taekwoon’s never felt more comfortable than in a place with strangers. Maybe he relates to their want of feeling a little bit unhindered for just a moment. It also could be reasonless and he’s just creating excuses for wanting such a strange kind of comfort. Either way, his feet bring him to the same entrance each weekend and Taekwoon blends into the crowd.

It’s no different this time. He shows his ID and steps in, letting the wall of adrenaline hit him and eventually swallow him whole. Taekwoon doesn’t drink—the atmosphere is intoxicating enough. No one looks at him in shock, as if to say “why are _you_ here?” and he enjoys it. Does his lack of recognition have something to do with him attending a nightclub miles away from his university? Probably. Is the gas worth it? Definitely.

Taekwoon doesn’t really dance as much as he sways to the music. He likes to people watch, likes seeing a person go from one partner to the next with no real bias. _Enjoys the lack of judgment_. He keeps away from the center to avoid being a choice, so when his eyes lock with a man that sports blazing blond hair and a stare that rivals his own intense gaze, Taekwoon’s throat goes dry. He tries to escape to the back of the club even more, but he doesn’t shake him. Somehow he ends up face to face with the man and immediately, Taekwoon looks down.

“Are you okay?”

Taekwoon is taken aback by the deep voice, but even more by the question. Of course he’s okay, he feels _great_.

“I’m fine,” Taekwoon says, looking to the side and holding the wrist of his opposite arm.

“What?” the stranger yells, obviously straining to hear him over the thundering music.

“I said I’m fine,” Taekwoon says louder, feet shuffling slightly.

“Oh,” he hears him say, “I just saw you standing alone and thought you looked a bit spaced out is all.”

Taekwoon shakes his head and looks up. His sight is greeted by eyes streaked with eyeliner and a hint of red eyeshadow, the same bright hair he caught a glimpse of slicked back, and a lazy smile. He’s attractive and Taekwoon fights the urge to peer back down at his feet.

“I’m here alone, too,” he says, “I wouldn’t hear the end of it if my friends caught me in here.”

Taekwoon wants to say he understands the feeling exactly but instead nods. He gets a bigger smile in response, one that doesn’t show teeth but instead pronounces the man’s cheekbones.

“I’m Kim Wonsik,” he says, extending a hand out to him. Taekwoon’s never experienced a conversation move so fast.

“Jung Taekwoon.”

Wonsik blinks in surprise as their hands meet.

“I feel like I know that name from somewhere,” he says, “you won last year’s original composition piece award, right?”

Taekwoon takes his hand back as if burned.

“You’re mistaking me for someone else,” he says.

“No, no, I know that face from anywhere! You looked really great playing the piano, I had your piece stuck in my head for weeks,” Wonsik says, eyes getting brighter and words becoming more intoned with excitement, “I couldn’t get over how somber but alive it sounded. Does that even make sense?”

Taekwoon struggles with what to respond to first; does he thank him for the compliment or thank him for the observation even his closest friends couldn’t make about his music? He sticks with nodding again.

“Did you ever record it for digital download? I’d love to have it,” Wonsik continues, pulling out his phone.

“No, sorry,” Taekwoon says, shaking his head.

Wonsik, a bit deflated, puts his phone back in his pocket. A silence falls upon them, only the chest-hitting beats filling up the space. Taekwoon bites his bottom lip out of habit, unsure of how to rid the air of its awkwardness.

“Maybe I could perform for you live sometime?” Taekwoon says finally and immediately wants to rip his tongue from his mouth. This is why he lets others do the talking—he just wanted to say _something_. But before he can retract his offer, Wonsik is smiling brilliantly, teeth now showing and all. His eyes scrunch up with the pull of his lips and Taekwoon knows he can’t go back on it.

“Really? It’s not weird since we just, you know,” Wonsik says, hands moving in an attempt to help explain himself, “met.”

Taekwoon wants to say _“yes! It’s very weird and I’m an idiot!,”_ but voices the opposite despite himself.

“Should we exchange numbers so we can plan it?” Wonsik asks and again Taekwoon feels dizzy at the speed of how things are progressing. But it matches the scenery, with people vanishing to bathrooms hand-in-hand and not coming out until at least three songs later. There really was no set pace here and he nearly blushes at the thought. It’s _nothing_ like that.

Taekwoon is given Wonsik’s phone and, with hesitant fingers, he adds himself as a contact and offers a forced smile when he’s given his own phone back.

“Can I get you a drink?” Wonsik asks after.

“I don’t drink,” Taekwoon says and, not a second later, feels bad for his tone, “sorry.”

Wonsik laughs at his curtness, looking to the side just a bit, and Taekwoon catches the glint of a piercing in his ear. It’s the industrial type, a bar extending from one side of the shell to the next. He also sees the black, solid gauge in his lobe, not big but fitting him just right. When Wonsik faces him again, Taekwoon quickly sneaks a glance at the matching gauge in the other ear. Suddenly, his own lobe piercings feel a little underwhelming.

“Don’t apologize,” Wonsik says, “I should be saying sorry for bothering you.”

“You’re not bothering me,” Taekwoon says. It’s a slight lie, but Taekwoon wouldn’t use that word to describe Wonsik’s presence. He’s like a slobbering dog—cute, but one (meaning Taekwoon) can’t help but to feel reluctant to pet him. “I think I’m about to leave, actually.” He hasn’t been there for more than a half hour but with every ticking second, the desire to escape increases.

“Really?” Wonsik asks, obviously dispirited, “even if I ask you to dance?”

“ _Especially_ if you ask me to dance,” Taekwoon mumbles out, “I’ll probably accidentally punch you or knee you.”

“Knee me where?” Wonsik asks, eyes wide.

Taekwoon’s lips twitch up just for a moment.

“Anything’s possible,” he says.

“Like you actually answering if I text you?” Wonsik asks.

“If I even gave you the right number,” Taekwoon answers and he vaguely wonders where the sudden witty banter came from. It took him _at least_ four months to get there with Hakyeon.

“I guess I’ll see you,” Wonsik says, hand rubbing the back of his neck.

Taekwoon, in all his awkwardness, gives a weak wave goodbye and before Wonsik can attempt to root him to his spot even more, rushes off. But right before he manages to make it to the door, his phone vibrates in his back pocket. With slender fingers, Taekwoon reaches for it and views the message glowing on his screen:

>    _I don’t think you’re the type to give fake numbers._

When Taekwoon sees the contact (“Wonsik” with a brightly smiling emoji next to it) he immediately looks back. With a huge grin, Wonsik waves at him with his phone in his hand—the screen still on from a freshly sent message.

Taekwoon leaves the nightclub with red cheeks.                                                                    

 

 

* * *

 

_Jung Taekwoon, 11:50 PM:_

> _I was tempted to give you the number to a pet shop since you remind me of a dog._

 

Wonsik smiles.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Sanghyuk's guidance, Taekwoon aims to find inspiration in a tattoo parlor. What he finds instead, though, is a familiar face.

Taekwoon buries his head in his hands for the third time that night, absolutely exhausted. With a frustrated sigh, he looks at the empty music sheet laid out before him filled with erasings of past ideas that quite didn’t make it.

 _If he could just come up with a melody!_ That’s all that Taekwoon needs to get to his hook, his melodic destination. From there he could simply build off of it and be done in time for the competition. Though he won last year, it didn’t give him any advantage this time around--especially with this funk he’s found himself in.

When a knock sounds and his bedroom door opens without him giving permission, Taekwoon knows it’s Hakyeon. He wouldn’t usually mind, but with the music sheet mocking him he can’t help but glare at his roommate.

“Put your mean eyes away and come watch a movie with us,” Hakyeon says, scrunching his nose up at Taekwoon’s attempt to scare him away, “you’ve been at this for hours.”

In moments like these, he wishes he lived alone. Alas, the rent is split between four people with him included.

“I thought Jaehwan and Hongbin were going out to eat with Sanghyuk tonight?” Taekwoon asks, leaning back in his chair.

“It’s Thursday, Taekwoon,” Hakyeon says, his arms crossing.

Thursday nights are movie nights—they mean a lot to Hakyeon.

“So they cancelled on him?”

“No, he’s here too,” Hakyeon says, smiling. He lives by the phrase “the more, the merrier.”

A beat passes before Taekwoon throws his pencil on his desk, a sign of resignation. Maybe a break would help him.

“Fine.”

 

* * *

 

Despite the loud noises and blaring explosions on the screen, Taekwoon hardly pays attention. His mind finds its pit in the abundance of questions he has for himself. Should his composition this year be a mood piece? He’d never tackled ambience before. Or should he keep true to his style and add a dramatic crescendo? Taekwoon slumps into his seat more, the couch cushions nearly consuming him.

“Stop taking up so much space,” Jaehwan whines beside him. It is tight with five people squished onto one couch. No one wanted to sit on the floor. “Taekwoon!”

Taekwoon mumbles out an apology and straightens out. It continues like this for the remainder of the movie until the credits roll and all but him clap enthusiastically. If asked to give a summary of the movie, Taekwoon wouldn’t be able to say much. Hell, he’s not even sure if he could describe what the actors looked like. And when Hongbin asks what his favorite moment was, he all but shrugs.

Hakyeon side-eyes him but says nothing.

Patting his knee, Jaehwan faces him with a smile. “ _So_ , do you think your best friends can hear a sneak peek to this year’s masterpiece?”

Taekwoon shifts and avoids eye contact.

“I haven’t started it,” he says.

Jaehwan’s smile falters for a split second.“You know the competition is in three months, right?”

Taekwoon abruptly stands up, his discomfort obvious.

“Well, hey, you’ve still got time,” Hakyeon says lightly. But his concern isn’t hidden just as the rest. It took Taekwoon six months to complete last year’s piece, his strive for perfection leading to constant, tedious tweaks.

“I might just drop out,” Taekwoon mumbles and he’s immediately met with sounds of objection.

“You’re not the Jung Taekwoon _I_ know,” Hongbin jokes but it hits Taekwoon hard. He doesn’t _want_ to drop out and hates the very idea of doing so. But the prospect of performing a lackluster piece in front of an eager audience and disappointing them makes his face heat with shame. Maybe he’s only meant for fifteen minutes of success; the same fifteen he’s already used up.

“In a slump?” Sanghyuk asks. Taekwoon nods wordlessly.

“I know a guy who might give you some inspiration,” Sanghyuk says and Taekwoon squints his eyes at the phrasing. Is this some kind of drug deal?

“You’re majoring in acting, how do you know any music guys?” Hongbin asks, eyebrow raised.

“I know you guys, don’t I? And music isn’t his first job _per se_ ,” Sanghyuk shrugs, “he’s actually a tattoo artist.”

“That still doesn’t explain how you know him,” Hakyeon says, “Sanghyuk, you didn’t get a ta—”

“No, a friend of mine got one done by him. But he plays his own music in the background of his shop and it’s actually pretty decent.”

“Taekwoon is better than decent,” Hakyeon says, crossing his arms. Jaehwan nods in agreement.

Taekwoon wants to hide.

“ _All_ I’m saying is that hearing some fresh sounds could spark a muse,” Sanghyuk reasons.

“If you’re desperate, it’s not a bad option,” Hongbin adds on.

Taekwoon runs his hands down his face in frustration, not offering a single thought on the idea.

“I’ll just text you the address and you can decide for yourself what you want to do.” Sanghyuk says.

Later that night, Taekwoon’s phone buzzes and bitterly, he gives in.

 

* * *

 

The first thing he does after class is drive to the destination his GPS points him to. Taekwoon finds himself pleasantly surprised when he drives into the bustling business district of town, newer buildings sparkling before him. But he also thinks it’s _his_ own fault for associating tattoo parlors with rundown parts of towns. He’s been watching too many movies lately.

This guy must be doing pretty well for himself, nonetheless.

Taekwoon parks in front of the shop, climbing over the gearshift to avoid having to open his door with traffic buzzing by. Stepping out and closing the door behind him, he notes that the windows of the shop are large and clean, _R.EBIRTH TATTOOS_ spelled largely before him. He blinks at the misplaced period. Aesthetic, maybe? 

A bell rings out with Taekwoon’s entrance but he ignores it, immediately listening for the background music Sanghyuk spoke of. He takes in the hip-hop influences, the touch of trap and deep-voiced rap. But his ears pick up on something that he cannot distinguish, something unique that he can’t quite _place_ with only twenty seconds of hearing it uninterrupted.

“Sorry, I was cleaning some tools—” someone says but cuts off.

Taekwoon looks to its source and his breath catches in his chest, his lungs forgetting how to expand and contract temporarily.

 Ah.

He knows that blond hair from anywhere. 

“Kim Wonsik,” Taekwoon says. He _knew_ the voice rapping in the background sounded familiar.

Wonsik smiles—a tiny one, yes, but a smile all the same.

“I didn’t think you were the tattoo type.” he says, a light laugh following after. An attempt to break the awkward air.

“What exactly is my type?” Taekwoon asks, eyebrow raised.

“Ah, nevermind,” Wonsik concedes quickly. “So you _are_ here to get ink done?”

Taekwoon looks away, cheeks tinting just the slightest. “No.”

Well, he certainly isn’t helping his own case.

“You own this place?” Taekwoon asks after a beat.

“I do,” Wonsik answers, pride evident.

“You seem a little young to be running a business,” Taekwoon mumbles.

“I went through all the necessary requirements to get where I am,” Wonsik says, but not coldly. Just facts.

“I can see that considering where you’re located,” Taekwoon nods. Wonsik softens. “I just figured at first that you were hired help.”

“Nope, this place is under my name and I’m the main tattooist here,” Wonsik says. “Can I ask why you’re here if not for a tattoo? I figured we’d talk more before a date.”

Taekwoon visibly colors but ignores the cheeky comment.

“This is your music playing, right?” He asks, pointing up at the speakers. Wonsik blinks but nods.  
“I was told to come here for some inspiration.” He’s not ready to admit that he’s incapable of composing a single note just yet.

Wonsik makes a sound of surprise and his hands raise in front of him. “This is nothing compared to what you’ve done.”

Taekwoon disagrees. He needs something new, something just like what he’s hearing. Looking at Wonsik, Taekwoon sees just that.

 “Can I listen to everything you’ve produced?”

 

* * *

 

Without proper recording equipment, the quality of his tracks are rough. But Wonsik’s talent cannot be denied. The fact that it’s just a hobby for him makes Taekwoon feel slightly dejected.

He draws inspiration from several genres, Wonsik tells him; combines what he likes into his own style and that’s where Taekwoon recognizes the distinct and alluring trait he couldn’t place before. Being unpredictable; an organized mess. Hip-hop and trap are his main bases, sure, but so many things build from there.

Taekwoon could never replicate that.

Sitting in the backroom of the parlor, he thanks Wonsik for sharing his music. He compliments him, says that he could make a future out of producing for companies. Maybe even sign to an agency and establish his own name as a rapper. Wonsik smiles at the praise but hides his face, shy, and says that that’s not the life for him. Creating art on flesh and having another type of his own artistry filling his shop was enough.

Taekwoon wants to say that’s a waste. Instead, he nods and says it’s time for him to leave.

“I can’t wait to hear your piece this year,” Wonsik calls out earnestly behind Taekwoon.

Taekwoon all but shatters the glass of the door on his way out.

 

* * *

 

He’s being petty, he knows. If anything, that makes him feel more annoyed. 

Taekwoon stares at his keyboard, stares at the instrument he’s poured his life into learning and mastering. He can see his young fingers trying to stretch across the porcelain keys of the upright piano in his home. He couldn’t take that to university with him, of course, so a keyboard sufficed. The pristine grand piano the music department boasts, however, might as well have his name on it. No one has spent more time on it than him. 

Yet, he feels lacking.

He knows contemporary and classical piano, such broad genres in themselves that suddenly feel nothing compared to Wonsik’s reach. How could a tattoo artist who’s utterly flippant on the topic of music do so much more than Taekwoon, someone who has devoted their life to it? It’s simple.

Where Taekwoon’s limited, Wonsik is _limitless._

He doesn’t have time to study new genres _and_ create a new piece, though. He has to start something and he has to start now. But nothing comes to him, not a spark nor a musing of any kid.

Someone knocks at his door and he begrudgingly says to come in.

“Dinner’s done.” It’s Hongbin. 

Taekwoon nods in acknowledgement but Hongbin doesn’t leave.

“Still having trouble?”

“That’s an understatement,” Taekwoon says coolly.

“Visiting that tattoo place didn’t help?” Hongbin asks, shutting the door behind him.

“His music isn’t overly incredible,” Taekwoon says, “it isn’t revolutionary or awe-inspiring. But it’s a style of its own and that’s what makes it stand out.”

“That sounds great! Didn’t it get your music senses tingling?” Hongbin asks enthusiastically.

“It made me feel like I’ve been doing the same thing over and over for years.”

“Isn’t that motivation to branch out?”

“I don’t have time to!” Taekwoon snaps but doesn’t add the important _“and I don’t know how to”_ part.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Hongbin sighs, “Just ask him for help. What you don’t have time for is being stubborn.”

Taekwoon slumps more into his seat and he can practically hear the eyeroll when his roommate leaves.

He doesn’t need help.

 

* * *

 

_Jung Taekwoon, 8:27 PM:_

> _Can I see you tomorrow at the club?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a whole to post! I moved, started a new job, and rewrote a good chunk of this chapter (yikes @ me). I'm going to be without internet for a little bit but I'll be working on future chapters, nonetheless! As always, thank you [ OceannanotOceania](http://archiveofourown.org/users/OceannanotOceania/pseuds/OceannanotOceania) for your beta assistance!

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song "Who is in Your Heart Now" by Studio Killers.


End file.
